


Blind

by a_nonny_moose



Series: Egotober 2017 [26]
Category: Markiplier Egos
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-26
Updated: 2017-12-26
Packaged: 2019-02-20 15:51:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,555
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13149918
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/a_nonny_moose/pseuds/a_nonny_moose
Summary: The day after the Host lost his eyes.





	Blind

The day after the Host lost his eyes was sunny, not a wisp of a cloud in the sky. 

The Host woke slowly, the absence of light telling his sleepy mind that it was still nighttime. It was a moment before he raised his hands to his face, rubbing at the skin of his cheeks. 

His hands stopped, fingers touching the thick crust of blood, tissue, mucus, that covered his face. He felt around for a moment—it was hard to _feel_ , really, the stuff coating his face like a mask. It was bumpy, congealed, almost cool. Wisps of cotton stuck to it, and the Host knew that it must have gotten all over his pillow.

He found what he was looking for, fingers moving upwards to the hollow of his browbone. It still hurt, of course, and even his own gentle fingers felt like knives to the folds of skin, tender, still moist with blood and the popped tissue of his eyes. 

The Host paused, running a hand over the bridge of his nose. His entire face was sore, stiff with the dried web of mucus. His face split into a smile, skin stretching against the crust. The Host had finally woken up. 

There was a warmth on his fingers, and it took the Host a second to realize that it was the warmth of the rising sun. He swung himself slowly out of bed, feeling oddly off-balance. His feet hit the floor, rough, heart-wrenchingly familiar. 

The Host stood, careful, arms stretched out. He knew his room well enough, he thought. The cabin was small, easy to navigate. 

He hadn’t taken two steps before he staggered, almost falling over his own misplaced chair. Grumbling, he steadied himself against the back of it, feeling around gently. His desk, his pen, his typewriter, sharp metal objects that sat, familiar, in his hands. Everything was as it should be. Another second of fumbling, and the Host’s hand closed around the handle of his bat. 

Properly armed, now, the Host stepped away from his desk. His bat tapped gently over the floor, against the doorway, and the Host stretched his face into a grin. All according to plan, even if there was the unaccounted-for eventuality of being unable to _see_. 

Soon, soon, he would see _everything_.

* * *

He tap-tapped his way into the restroom, washbasin sloshing. It wasn’t until now that he’d noticed, but as he stopped moving, holding his breath for a moment, the Host could really hear everything. The birds chirping outside, the rustling of leaves, the brush of branches and wind against the cabin’s roof. It seemed like the world was at his fingers, but only for as long as he paused to listen. 

The Host fumbled for a towel, listening to the water heater power up. Something seemed to have clicked, listening to the world around him, the world that he _hosted_. It was power, making a home in his chest, burrowing into him. A parasite. 

He scrubbed at his cheeks with a towel, steaming with hot water. He scrubbed until he could feel the skin flaking, red and raw, scabs bleeding fresh, eye sockets streaming. It was oddly freeing, not having to squint through the steam, not having to avoid his eyes when he rubbed the cloth across his face. So he wiped, towel covered in water and blood and bits of wet, squishy clots, until the water ran cold. 

Straightening up, the Host set the towel on its hanger. He turned, head towards the mirror, and imagined his own reflection. He must look like a mess, he figured, pale skin and greasy hair and two holes gored through his face. His fingers found the flaps of skin again: eyelids uselessly torn in half, the edges thick, scabbed with lines of blood. It was a surprise to find blood still bubbling up, hot and sticky in his hands. No matter—it would heal eventually, and sight was a small price to pay for the plans he had. 

The Host ran his hands over the sink, not even realizing that his shoulders were stiff. It was excitement, he convinced himself, bubbling in his stomach. He knelt, feeling for the cabinets, and found a cloth. This, for now, would do. The Host took the corner in his teeth, ripping, tearing, and it tore easily into strips. He tossed the strings aside, trying not to think of stretching, dangling tendons and nerves. With gentle, curious fingers, he wound the strips around his head, hugging the bridge of his nose. It was awkward, as everything was, just now, but it would do. 

Already, the front of the makeshift bandage was wet with blood, but the Host shrugged the thought aside. Pain was temporary, and useless. Power was forever. 

The Host straightened up again, an idea coming to mind. He cleared his throat, voice raspy from disuse. How did he start? It was as if he was a character, he figured. His fingers found the handle of his bat again, security rather than nervousness. 

“The Host is in his bathroom, looking at himself in the mirror, feeling ridiculous.” 

A moment, and the image came to the forefront of his mind with a blinding flash of light. Sure enough, there he was, blood starting to streak down his cheeks again. The Host wiped it away, impatient, the sleeves of his button-down already beyond stained. 

“The Host walks to the door, making his way to the kitchen.”

As he spoke, he moved, the bat dangling over his shoulder. The world was coming back in bits and pieces, a sense of where things were as he walked. The words were barely a murmur, but showed him his rooms with sharp clarity. The Host let a confident smile grow on his face as he picked his way into the kitchen, feeling the blood between his teeth. 

* * *

The smell of coffee, even, seemed to be amplified by a generous five percent. The Host hummed as he found the water, then the grounds, barely needing to narrate his way though this. It was a morning ritual, after all, and one he did often enough with eyes still half-gummed from sleep. 

A drop of blood fell from his chin to the table, a soft _splat_ , and the Host raised a hand to his face, taken aback. This wasn’t the blood of a wound, then, and not normal. Nothing about this was normal, and he should have known that from the moment that the power-fueled voice inside his head had begun talking back to him.  The Host swallowed a bit, setting his empty cup back down, and reached for another cloth. 

The bandage now snug, tight across the back of his head, the Host reached again for his cup, fingers slick with blood. 

_Crash_.

The Host reeled back, hands going to cover his ears. The shatter of ceramic against tile was painfully loud, almost too much. A stabbing pain between his temples, and he shifted his hands to find fresh, twin streams of blood running down his cheeks. 

He nearly screamed, then, frustration mingled with pain, but a nagging in the back of his head kept him quiet. Steely control. The Host bent to pick up the largest shards of his cup, sweeping the rest out of the way. He’d fix it later—he had an eternity to fix it, after all.

As the Host moved to throw the shards away, they clinked in his hands like the ringing of bells, light and tinny. The sound moved around him, and he held his breath for a moment more, listening again with ears perked forward. 

Oddly enough, he could _hear_ the room around him. The sound of shattered glass was duller here than there, and the Host stretched his hand out to find the trash bin in front of him. 

He was learning quickly, if nothing else, and smiled again, feeling blood drip into his mouth. 

The Host’s coffee brewed quickly, and he made his way back to his room with a mutter under his breath and the clink of a spoon against his mug. The small sounds cleared the way for him, and he settled into his chair with a satisfied sigh. 

* * *

The day after the Host lost his eyes was a beautiful sunny day, not a cloud in sight. The Host felt the sun on his face as he sipped his coffee, his microphone positioned just under his chin. He heard the birds chirp through the static as he tuned his radio, listening intently. The sharpness of blood mixed with the bitter of his coffee as he smiled into the microphone, headphones snapped over his ears. The wood was rough under his fingers as he pulled his tiny setup closer towards him, head tilting gently. Four senses, now, each one magnified. 

The ‘On Air’ button lit up, and the Host couldn’t see it. No, he was more focused on seeing other things. 

The click of a button being pressed, and even the birds outside fell silent. The warmth of the sun faded quickly, coffee quickly replaced by rust. 

The Host smiled.

“The sun is hot, the moon is beautiful, and mysterious lights pass overhead while we all pretend to sleep. Welcome, listeners, to your newest daily radio show. I am your Host. Let’s begin, shall we?”


End file.
